


I Liked That Colour

by MilesCries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Supportive Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesCries/pseuds/MilesCries
Summary: Dean is confounded when Sam joins him for breakfast with his nails painted pink. It would seem both brothers harbour some misunderstandings, and Dean just wants Sam to feel safe.Some gender dysphoria and struggles with identity.Please note there are very minor themes of self-harm-- but even though it's brief, it is still present.Plenty of dialogue, comfort, and apology!Can be read as gen.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	I Liked That Colour

With a sullen strain of exasperation, Sam settled at the end of his bed. Swollen eyes begged for permission to waiver from such a cyclic frustration as he crammed them shut in retaliation. It didn’t happen often. He ran a palm down his thigh to self-pacify, and another through his hair to steer from the sentiment he knew would pass in time as it had precedently. 

It would be treated with no further grace than an aspirin granted a migraine, to then lay back and wish for the throbbing to shift away. He wouldn’t be passing through the bathroom any more than necessary today. Sam slowly picked the dirt from his nails, inspecting them, condemning the faults in them. His gaze drifted languidly to the second pillow, innocently playing decoy atop his sheets. Under its cover hid two sleek bottles, half drained supplies of polish, one black, one a pale, rose-coloured pink.

Having considered the many acceptances his brother surprised him with in the past, on his most confident of days even Sam could admit this was silly. But it was always some inexplicable boundary that made Sam hold his breath. Nothing promised change; and he knew above it all that Dean was likely to take it in stride, even if his big brother had to fumble the first steps through. Instead, Sam got quiet. He feared their dynamic may change. This did not call for a bright red sticker that read “fragile,” more than anything he fantasized batedly of a casual recognition, one that typically arrived following built-upon years of forthrightness. 

Sam sighed, and skated an arm along the mattress to pull a bottle into the open. It seemed to shrink in his hand, the container dwarfed by tall, slender fingers. He sat back up and turned the pink paint over in his care, letting the glass capture and bend the dim lamp light. Despite the constrictive sensation that clutched deeply during these nights, he could not smother the slightest smile that pulled his features as he cradled the small comfort. Sam found he could unfasten the cap as deftly as his brother unscrewed the lid from a flask. Although bitter, the thought made him snicker. Each Winchester had their own methods of coping, he supposed. 

It was a discomfort, a dysphoria his research would proclaim. However, Sam would define it in an alternatively roundabout sort of way. He did not feel misplaced in his body, but some days certainly felt ambiguous. He often found himself tugging down the hem of tight sleeves. Additionally, there was no pattern he could time or predict-- unlike monsters with a full moon-- this identity was arbitrary. And so, Sam wallowed in the brief lapses solitarily, unsure in his ability to communicate clearly enough to himself, save Dean. 

Conditioned digits, nimbly cultivated through the steady practice of lacing sutures, laid the rosy gloss with a schooled precision. A new, benevolent levity appeared in his posture with each nail that was covered. It would be just enough to settle the aching, what only surfaced intermittently, whether after weeks or months, to last just a few nights at a time. With a soft click, the bottle was placed gently onto his nightstand and he watched as his hand reeled slowly back to join the other splayed before him. Ten fingers, he pressed against one another, and tilted them slowly in admiration. There was not a stray smear of pigment to be seen. 

It was late in the evening as Sam resignedly glanced at the hour. His brother would be sleeping. It was nearly a new day, and come morning Sam would be swabbing the evidence away with the single sort of alcohol his family could not drink. But while in the safety of nightfall, the youngest of two Winchesters would relish what small freedom it offered. And Sam felt a grain lighter. 

Standing up, he pulled his sweats an inch higher and wiggled socked toes as they pressed upon the bunker’s chilled flooring. Two steps and Sam’s brush was embraced in a loose grasp. Soothing teeth washed over brown strands and tempted a small few to a dance in the static draw of its repeated gesture. He stepped listlessly around the room, eyes half closed by some mild trance the action gifted. Satisfied, he tucked one side snug behind an ear and fell limply atop his comforter. The cool plush cinched beneath his welcomed figure as he curled to greet softly bent knees. He fell asleep in a potent haze, calmed by the allowance to simply be. There would be research waiting in the morning, there always was.

-

Sam smacked stale saliva with dry lips as he rose; he could sense more than see the dismayed tufts of hair, wholly agitated by his pillow’s side. From time to time Dean teased his waking likeness to that of a baby bird’s. He hesitated a moment prior to releasing the warmth which his blanket withheld into the air, and shivered. He would skip his run today, he thought dismissively. Only once the heavy fragrance of brewing coffee filtered beyond the walls of his room did Sam realize he’d slept well enough into the morn that his brother had chanced to rouse before him. It was rare, but it happened occasionally. And Dean would all-too predictably regard his tardy appearance with a prideful grin, one that was perhaps too smug for such an accomplishment. 

The staple smell seduced his leaden limbs to seek its siren source about bleary vision. Dean, whose back was turned, swam around the counter to retrieve a clean mug from the cupboard as padded steps approached the kitchen. 

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He chirped cheekily over his shoulder as Sam yielded pliantly to a stiff seat at the table behind him. 

“Mm,” Sam lamented in return as his brother’s balmy laugh spilled fondly into the pour of warm liquid. A quiet snick replaced the pot back below the drip.

“There we go, Sunshine.” Dean smiled, setting a strong portion delicately before his little brother’s logy frame, and dropped into the stool across from him. 

Sam watched it settle, letting the steam dampen his nose for a fine moment, “Thanks, Dean.” He murmured, slowly swathing both hands over heated ceramic, and meeting his lips. 

“Sammy?” Dean prompted, halting mid-sip to cock his head curiously. 

“Hm?” Sam hummed idly.

Ensnared upon his baby brother’s carefully manicured mittens, Dean inhaled, reeling intently on how to approach their abrupt appearance. 

“Uh,” He faltered, “What’s with the makeup?” 

The inquiry found Dean promptly cringing introspectively, capsized by his own crass delivery.

With a sharp hitch and a painful thump, Sam’s hands were hidden beneath the table, and pupils dilated in violent realization. 

“Wait, no. Sammy,” He tried, “That’s not how I meant it.”

Sam shook his head tensely and criticized either fist, each clenched with a dreadful pressure in his lap. There was a sensitive stretch of silence.

“I was gonna wash it off.” Came a faint plea for his brother to believe the intention, “I mean-- I meant to wash it off...” His admonishing cadence coaxed Dean’s memory to a sorry time in which Sam had lost a shoe.

Dean rehearsed opening and closing his mouth, mustering off-the-cuff for something delicate to convey. Nothing escaped, save a few severed takes. And he stared widely at his baby brother who sat, for once, discomposed. 

“Sam—”

“Dean, it’s alright.” Sam cracked wetly, “I’m gonna go take care of it.” 

Though they withstood their aversion, Dean could spot his brother’s cast eyes bloom in boughs of plaintive crimson. And he’d ducked from the table to leave Dean be with a bitter absence. Down the corridor he could hear Sam’s door clip shut, but knew better than to glance a stripped wire. Instead, he collected himself and, although a rare companion, confided in the library. 

The space exuded Sam, although more likely it was Sam who reeked of this place. For days his little brother would steep in the perfume of yellow, some concoction of printed oxidation and the inexplicably spectacular molding of old spines bound in starch glue. It was an odd thing to approach the volumes without seeing his brother’s tall figure hunched over as much research one could puzzle beneath the low desk lights. Dean read each title, skimming twice when his hunt failed to yield any relevant sources. Of course the bunker’s dated selection would supply sparsely on the subject; open minds are not always progressive minds.

With a huff, he sought out Sam’s laptop.

-

Ripe tears seared each sloped waterline when Sam felt the bunker door’s marked slam irrevocably fracture his resolve. He looked at his nails, freshly bare and cut a fraction too short. He had washed them until they were rugged, until the skin of his knuckles bled and cracked so there remained no trace if Dean were to return back. Yet, Sam was too distraught to think about the way the burning water had carved and burrowed beneath to sting its fine cavities. He turned the faucet off and returned to bed. The dolesome mood brought about a familiar languor, a debility, if asked, he could not recall living without. And sleep was a sweet remedy for such a thing.

-

“Excuse me sir,” Dean jumped at the sudden request, his face feeling flush and his body fidgety, while discovered in his obvious displacement. He turned to greet the woman behind him, having crumpled a small cardboard packet which nearly dropped from his clammy hands, “Sorry, and I don’t mean to presume, but I was wondering if I could help you find something?”

She was young, maybe twenty, and looked possibly as uncertain approaching Dean as he felt in this unfamiliar place. And he suddenly felt a bit silly for being so nervous as he was. He glanced apologetically at the set he held of “purple barrette clips”, and began to smooth the creases he made in their packaging. 

“Uh,” Dean responded, meeting her eyes, “I’d appreciate it, if you don’t mind. I’m actually kinda lost.” He chuckled, finding the humour in his blunders. It was only cosmetics after all.

“Of course!” The clerk excited, “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I’m not too sure, honestly.” He laughed, “I was looking for your nail polishes, but I haven’t found them yet.” He glanced around, finally feeling comfortable enough to shift his line of sight above the items on the bottom shelves, and found that he was currently surrounded by what appeared to be only hair products. 

“We have a whole wall of them!” She beamed, “Here, I can show you where they are,” her curly hair swayed as she turned and gestured for Dean to follow, “Are you interested in a certain colour?” She inquired as they rounded the corner, “I like the clips you have there, maybe we can find a match?”

The wall spanned the entire left wing of the store. Glossy bottles sat beneath their satin caps from ceiling to floor, one for each colour under the sun and some hues he was sure did not exist beyond the doors of this quaint Kansas shop. Dean’s jaw dropped. 

“That’s a-- that’s a good plan, yeah,” He gulped, “Maybe we can find a match.”

-

After parking the Impala, Dean looked fondly at the white bag which held a small assortment of such unassuming but powerful things. He briefly wondered if its contents might release his brother from the tension that curled his posture painfully and scattered his gaze like buckshot remains. He wondered briefly if this was even the answer he hoped it would be.

The bag crinkled as he opened the bunker’s door, and his boots on the stairs sounded violently in the open space. He walked past the war room and set the bag and his jacket down on the last of the library's tables. There was no Sam to be seen. 

He called his brother’s name. His echo the only voice which replied, and he steered down the hall.

Again as he approached the door to his brother’s room he called, “Sammy?” Something dreadful crawled between his ribs and coiled among the guts he used to breath. He’d have knocked if he felt the sharp raps would be anything but jarring. “Sammy? I’m gonna open the door, okay?”

He allowed a few more notes of silence before making his entrance with a drawn and dissonant creak. Sam’s room was dark, but there was plenty of light from the hallway to see the shape of his brother, still and feigning perfect sleep. Though Dean knew Sam could not be caught off guard so easily.

In four strides, the thumps of his thick-soled boots deadened by the care in which he stepped, Dean brought himself to a crouch by the side of Sam’s bed. They were looking at each other, and Dean reached up to card a hand through his brother’s hair. It wasn’t tangled like it could sometimes be, and Dean had noticed the brush on the nightstand. Extra care had been taken.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean smiled with a reverent maternity, continuing his ministrations. Sam just stared emptily for a moment, like exhaustion was a possessor the same as any demon or familiar fiend. Dean waited.

“I washed it off,” Sam whispered, “The paint, I mean. It’s gone.”

Dean moved his fingers from Sam’s hair to inspect the hands his brother had curled loosely against his chest. Even in the low light, he could see the marred flesh. Small pinpricks of blood had dried like a rust along the contours of each thinly formed crack. He picked up Sam’s left hand with his own, entwining their fingers delicately, and began to warm his brother’s cold arms by gently rubbing from elbow to wrist with his right. 

“I liked that colour.” Dean said. Sam’s eyes, blushed with red, moved slowly from the distance behind Dean’s head and back to focus again. “There he is.” Dean’s lips curved softly.

“I didn’t mean for you to see,” Sam said, like he could make Dean take it back the way he was so sure Dean would. “I always wash it off in the morning.”

“I hope you haven’t been washing them like this,” He accentuated with a gentle rub of his thumb along the back of Sam’s hand, careful not to cause any more pain. Dean felt guilt for the way his brother supposed the need to hide, and he could understand objectively why. There were no havens for the young sons of John, and Dean had seemed the product of his father’s mantras. He overcompensated, he was aware. He was “butch” he’d been told. It was damaging beyond himself, he knew that, but never to which extent. And he wanted his little brother to know that no disparity could make Dean less devoted, or less of a brother to him. Because after all, it was still Sam, and great loves don’t often come around so easily. For Sam, he never even had to look.

The brothers fell back into silence. Sam just swallowed, wary of slipping into the comfort Dean was offering. He didn’t know if Dean even understood, or how far the ice had formed underneath. Dean shifted on the balls of his feet, his knees were not so tolerant as they used to be. 

“I got something for you, Sammy,” He shared as though secretly, crow’s feet radiating, "But I want to take care of your hands before they get worse. Think you can sit up for me?” 

The whisper hung in the air for a moment, and they searched each other’s eyes for that famous codependent, same-page need. Then Sam moved, the first Dean had seen since arriving home; he nodded his head. The right side of his hair was splayed and pressed against the bed, and made a scratching sound as he did so. But he made no further shifts to follow.

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean conceded, stretching to pull his fingers through Sam’s hair once more before standing up. “I’ll be right back, so don’t go running off to have a shower or anything,” He winked. 

In the bathroom Dean located the old Bell System first-aid tin, a motion he could complete with his eyes closed. The contents inside had been replaced time and again, their modern designs appearing misplaced in the green box which predated his father’s age. He dug around packaged needles, swabs, and an ancient vial of iodine to secure a small tube of antibiotic cream and a half-dozen small bandages. 

When he returned, Sam was cross-legged and leant back against the headboard with his eyes closed lightly. With his locks mussed and downcast, he looked so much like the Sam made soft and sickened by the trials, and Dean had to remind himself that they were long behind them. A slight scrape accompanied the chair from the desk beside his brother’s bed, and he bent to pull the lamp’s cord, casting the room in a deep orange before settling down. 

“Can I see?” 

Sam opened his eyes slowly and turned to reveal his hands, Dean thought he heard his breath shaking. The older Winchester accepted his wrist with a reverent touch, humbled by the consent for his aid. Each digit was inspected with a pacific and pious scrutiny, and he was glad to find the red skin had only taken an appearance worse than their actual damage. They were still warm to the touch from their burning and irritations. 

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean started suddenly. One could hear the grief in his voice, “I never wanted you to feel that…” He trailed off and looked to the side, just beginning to apply the medication, “That you couldn’t feel safe enough here. Around me.” Dean offered, avoidant in his gaze. He occupied the empty spaces with gentle movements and thought futilely if he could only fix these wounds, his little brother would be okay. The sticky sounds of bandages removed of their backing covered the silence and were welcomed as familiar music from so many childhood scenes. “I just-- I notice some days, you get this look like you’re too tight in your skin,” Dean placed the last bandage with such care. They had covered the worst of the cuts. “I always chocked it up to anxieties or some sort of PTSD, and I don’t know how for so long I could have misunderstood. I always wanted to be there for you, Sammy.” 

He paused to collect himself, anxious without anything left to do. The bandages weren’t going to make this remedy. He took his brother's hands in both of his, cradling them gently, and looked up. Sam’s eyes were looking back so hopefully, that Dean had to smile despite themselves. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, heaven knows I haven’t given you a reason to, but I want you to be able to live happily. And if that means growing out your hair, or colouring your nails, or anything else, Sammy, I don’t want to be the reason that keeps you.” 

Dean stood then, their palms still anchored together and kissed the top of his brother’s hair. Sam blinked his eyes to shed the blurry lens of his tears, he still couldn’t say a thing.

“I still have something to give you. Come with me?” 

Sam nodded frantically, matching his brother’s smile uncontroullably. He wondered how he ever questioned Dean’s credit. He was pulled by one hand through the bunker, the band-aids bulking their grasp. Dean lead them to the library where a white bag was nestled against his brother’s jacket on the closest table. They stopped there and Sam felt his hand squeezed once before Dean let go and motioned for him to take a seat. His attention followed Dean, who glided slowly towards the crinkled, plastic shape, seemingly deep in thought as bag concealed the motion of his fingers wrapping around something. There he froze, looking to the side again, nervous. He still wondered if he was somehow ignorant in his assumptions. 

“I read some stuff today,” Dean started, hand still hovering in the bag, “A lot about people who are hurting. A lot about people trying to find ways to express outwardly how they feel inwardly.” He snuck a glance at Sam quickly, whose expression held against Dean’s was like a cornered rabbit’s, before breathing in and continuing on. “I read about people who’d died, Sam, people who’ve lost their kids because they had to hide away,” Warm water itched at his eyes, and he met Sam’s face, smiling softly, “It scared me.” 

He released some of the tension in his grip around the items and pulled them free, still obscured to his brother by the palms of his hands. Dean walked around to the chair next to Sam’s and took his seat, their knees nearly touching. Sam’s demeanor had eased with the proximity. 

“But reading all that doesn’t make me an expert, and it doesn’t mean your experiences are the same.” As Dean spoke, Sam found himself looking down into his lap, breathing slowly to fight the explosive relief from a years’ long exhaustion. “ And I want to be there, and I really want to understand, Sammy.” 

Dean looked into his own hands, laughing breathily and feeling his hesitance abate moderately. He held out the three items, “A woman at the store helped me pick them out, that’s where I went earlier,” He smiled, shifting his attention to his brother’s reaction, “If you were wondering.”

Sam’s eyes went wide, and he looked up at his brother, shocked. Dean kept smiling. 

“I found these clips and we figured I should get a paint to match it,” He said sheepishly, turning the bottles in his hands, “She said this clear one would make the colours harder to chip.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief, attempting to shake off the overwhelming release. In a moment, his arms were around Dean’s shoulders and crashing their bodies together tightly. Sam’s eyes were squeezed shut and he cried. They didn’t mind the boney press of their knees which collided harshly, or the stiff packaging of the pastel purple barrette’s being crumpled once again against the soft flesh of their bodies. 

“Dean, I--” Sam began. “I don’t know what to say,” Was muffled against his older brother’s neck. 

“Nothing, Sammy.” Dean rumbled while rubbing one arm along Sam’s back, soothing both parties. “I’m just sorry it took me so long.” 

Sam pulled away and couldn’t hide the sloppy, pink-nosed mess he’d become, but he grinned wide anyway. “This is so thoughtful, thank you.” He said genuinely, retrieving the gift’s from Dean’s hands as they were precious, holy things. He kind of wished he’d been there to see Dean brave a beauty store. “I don’t know why I was so afraid,” He admitted, inspecting the labels absently, “I want to tell you everything, but this identity-- it’s so vague. It’s a feeling I get, and it bothers me like I can’t reconcile the thoughts with who I am. Honestly, it makes me want to tear off my skin.” He paused, swallowing, “But doing these things-- it helps.” Sam smiled, gesturing to the items in his hands. “I know I might not be making a lot of sense.” He was looking down again, suddenly embarrassed.

Dean considered it all for a moment, so proud and so elated that his brother finally had the chance to share himself beyond the prison walls of a private mind. He placed his palm against Sam’s cheek, an action to honour the language they both deferred to so well.

“There’s no need to put a name to it,” Dean whispered, “The world isn’t waiting on an answer, and neither am I. You can have all the time you need, baby boy.”


End file.
